Love letter # 194
Beneath a solitary yellow globe – on a borrowed bed – we did nothing special – just the instinctive rocking of man and woman. Your weight moving in and out of me. My need consuming you.
Yet even when it was at its hottest you knew not be a machine. You made love like a song. You paid attention. Never forgot you were with someone. Enough of me was aware of it to know that I had never known it before. But it wasn’t their fault. I was the mechanical one. I was one who kept it unfeeling.
You weren’t sexy because of technique – you were sexy because of feeling. Because you surrendered.
In turn, I yielded absolutely. To you. To the way you ate me.
It didn’t just bring sex to life – it brought life to life. Suddenly I had senses. There was beauty and wanting. Exhilaration. Exhaustion. Incredible pleasure. There was this pump in my chest – the very drum of my existence. Pounding and primitive. Undeniable.
Something you did – someone you were – made all this possible. The switch was in me – I know that – but you showed me where it was. You made me want to turn it on. To risk the way light might fall.
I used to live for a kind of truth. I thought it would set me free.
I don’t live for anything now. I just live. I look at men. Suck and fuck them with my eyes. Dream that they were you.
Like I’m dreaming now.
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